by Abby Gaines
Melanie was engrossed in conversation. She at least had conceded Cynthia’s courage in defying Ethan, and Cynthia would be welcome to join her and Margaret, but she could hardly fasten herself to her administrative assistant like a barnacle.
She bit her lip. Good grief, this wasn’t elementary school. She was a grown woman who could sit wherever she chose. Including over there, with that group of seniors. Older people were intrinsically polite, weren’t they?
“Hi, I’m Cynthia Merritt,” she said to a man sporting a prominent hearing aid as she slipped into the seat next to his.
“Hello, Judge,” he replied. So there was no need to explain why she was in town. Thankfully, his companions all returned her greeting. She did her best to store their names. Silence settled, as they looked at her expectantly. About now, Sabrina would say something charming and amusing to put everyone at ease.
Cynthia dug a fork into her grits.
ETHAN LISTENED WITH ONLY half an ear to Joe Cates’s description of the truck he planned to buy in Albany. Yet again, his gaze was drawn to the new judge. Who would have thought she’d look so young, so girlish, in a sundress? I would have, he admitted irritably. Yep, the judge had been on his mind pretty much nonstop the past two days. He alternated between unsought recall of her pretty face and curvy figure, and being hopping mad about the way she’d ignored his advice and sent Sam to work in the damn library.
If she’d bothered to learn the first thing about how folks thought around here…look at her, acting as if chatting to those old people was some Herculean task, her eyes wide and desperate. No doubt she was spouting off about justice, when all they wanted was someone to hear them out on the parlous state of today’s youth.
She needed to learn towns like Stonewall Hollow were a lot more personal than the city…though she’d likely figured that out when she was dealt the cold shoulder during Melanie’s introductions tonight. Much as he appreciated folks’ loyalty, he felt a twinge of sympathy.
Quit thinking about the judge. Ethan turned away, and caught sight of his mom talking to the sheriff. She’d be poking her nose into his and Sam’s business—she had no right to play the concerned grandmother after the kind of mother she’d been.
He tipped his head back, blocking his mother out, too, but there was only so long he could stare at the ceiling without Joe breaking off to sympathize about his “problem” son. On balance, he’d rather look at the judge.
Some of the people Cynthia had been talking with had gone for dessert. The last two, Mr. and Mrs. Hobbs, were summoned by a friend as Ethan watched—they got up and left her alone. Head high, a small smile on her lips, she scanned the room. Not my problem.
Ethan flexed his fingers, still sore from the blisters he’d earned taking out his frustration on the woodpile around the back of the house after Sam’s hearing yesterday. Another black mark against the judge. No one else had come close to provoking his temper. Even with Sam, whose entire purpose in life was to drive Ethan crazy, he managed to hold on to his hard-won calm.
At least Sam’s behavior was fueled by some valid resentment. Ethan could understand it. The judge was just plain ornery, and didn’t care what her attitude was doing to his family.
Cynthia’s smile faltered. Quickly, she pinned it back in place. Why had she even showed up? He’d been certain she wasn’t interested in getting to know them. He’d bet money the judge had never been to a potluck in her life. She had the stamp of Atlanta’s privileged classes all over her, from her smooth, glossy blond hair down to the high-heeled sandals on her slim feet.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ethan saw his mom walking purposefully in his and Joe’s direction, her hands twisting at her sides in that nervous way they did when she had to deal with something unpleasant.
“Dammit,” he muttered. He excused himself as he jammed his sore fingers in his pockets and headed for the judge. It would be a good test of his self-restraint, he told himself. If he could keep his cool with her, he could handle anything Sam threw at him.
“Can I offer you a tour of Stonewall Hollow’s famous dessert table, Your Honor?”
She started. “Mr. Granger, uh, hi. Were you talking to me?”
Ethan nodded. “Let me take that plate for you.” She hadn’t finished her meal. He suspected she’d lost her appetite.
She examined him with those gray eyes, as if she could see right into his head, read his motives.
“Dessert was a one-time offer for a limited period,” he warned.
She glanced around the room a last time, accepted her dearth of conversational choices. “Then I accept.”
He wasn’t used to women accepting him out of desperation. He found himself smiling as he deposited their plates on a trolley. He tugged his mouth back into line; he was still mad at the judge.
An audible buzz of conversation rose when Cynthia walked with him to the dessert table. His mom stopped in her tracks. Mission accomplished.
“I can recommend Melanie’s pecan pie,” he said. “Louisa Allen’s ginger cake is hard to pass up, too. It was runner-up at last year’s county fair.” He indicated the fragrant cake, plump with pieces of stem ginger.
“Not this particular cake, I hope.”
This time, he allowed the smile. “I think she baked a new one.”
Cynthia took the bowl he handed her and served herself a piece of both the pie and the cake. She moved farther down the table. Ethan went around the other side on a quest for chocolate brownies. Her eyes, direct and clear, met his over the desserts.
“Are you being nice because you want me to do things your way in court?” she asked.
He paused midway through transferring the brownie to his plate. “You’re determined to believe the worst of me.” At least she was upfront about it. If he was going to stand accused, let it be open rather than veiled resentment. Which didn’t mean he would let her get away with it. “I felt sorry for you,” he said.
“Oh.” Color stained her cheeks.
Yeah, well, she started it. Ethan winced. Sam probably thought the same way—childishly—except Ethan didn’t have the excuse of being eighteen years old.
“I don’t need your pity.”
He wasn’t about to comment on that, when it was obvious she needed all the help she could get. “You have enough there?”
She’d added blueberry pie and peach cobbler to her serving.
“I like dessert.” She held the bowl close to her chest, shielding it with one hand.
He found himself assessing her curves. Again. Obviously, he didn’t get out enough. He nabbed another brownie, found a couple of spoons, then led her to the seating below the stage.
“How did Sam’s day go at the library?” she asked.
She had guts, the judge, she didn’t shirk trouble. One-handed, Ethan separated a couple of chairs that had their legs tangled. “It took him most of the day to clean up the graffiti.” Sam hadn’t told him that, of course. Sheriff Davis had filled him in.
She sat down, accepted a spoon from him. “I hope the librarian—Mrs. Gibson, wasn’t it?—was pleased to have her building restored.”
The brownie smelled of warm chocolate and nuts. “I guess it’s tomorrow she’s worried about.” He took a bite.
“She must have plenty of work for Sam. Shelving books and the like.”
“Fran was mugged a couple of years ago. She’s been jittery around teenage boys since,” Ethan said. “Sam’s hundred hours will punish her as much as him.” Since Cynthia was so keen on telling it like it is.
Her plate almost slid off her lap before she caught it. “I didn’t—surely, since Sam’s your son and everyone likes you so much…”
“Wouldn’t matter who he is. Which I’d have told you if you’d discussed sentencing with me.”
She swallowed. “I’ll have his community service redirected.”
“To my place.”
She took her time spooning up some blueberry pie. “To somewhere equally fitting his crime, where he’s wor
king for someone impartial.”
Dammit, three months ago Ethan’s life had been exactly how he wanted it. Now, everything had gone haywire and he didn’t get a say in fixing it. It was enough to drive a guy to—Proving my self-restraint. He shifted in his seat, loosened his grip on the spoon.
“Do you plan to leave me here alone now that you didn’t get what you want?” she asked coolly.
He was tempted. But if she held all the power, he had to take every opportunity to persuade her to his point of view about Sam.
He realized he hadn’t seen his son in a while. He combed the room, found him with Rob Barnes and another kid. Harmless enough. Sam caught him looking, though, and glared.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. If he’d blinked, he would have missed the barely perceptible slump of Cynthia’s shoulders. Interesting. Maybe she didn’t have quite all the power.
She was seriously bothered that no one wanted to talk to her. How could he turn that to his advantage?
Cynthia turned to observe the crowd, her features relaxed, as if she hadn’t just betrayed her apprehension. Too late, Judge. “Who’s the woman with the camera?” she asked. “I think she took my photo.”
It took Ethan a moment to find who she meant. “That’s Tania Leach, from the Stonewall Hollow Gazette. She’ll probably want to interview you at some stage. She’s harmless enough, so long as you don’t ruffle her feathers.” He paused. “Think you can manage that?”
Her head snapped around. “Of course I can.”
“I wasn’t the only one not happy in court yesterday,” he pointed out. “From the reception you got here tonight, I’m guessing today didn’t go much better.”
With her spoon, she carved out a piece of peach cobbler. “It’s hardly surprising your friends should take your side.”
“We’re loyal to our own,” he agreed. “Mind you, I’ve only been here going on twelve years, which makes me a relative newcomer. But I decided this community was worth being part of, and I worked to make it happen.” He watched her put the cobbler in her mouth. A crumb remained on her bottom lip.
“I can’t worry about people’s sensitivities.” Her tongue flicked out to round up that crumb, and it took him a moment to process her comment.
“Maybe if you considered their sensitivities, or at least what makes them tick, you wouldn’t have had so much trouble,” he suggested.
“This isn’t kindergarten,” she said. “It’s the law, and it’ll get worse before it gets better—wait till I start sending people’s buddies to jail.” She started to let out a sigh, but pressed her lips together. One of the straps of her dress slipped down her shoulder. The creamy skin held his attention until she tugged the strap into place.
“If it’s any consolation—” not that she deserved consoling “—the sheriff’s been trying to catch Ernie driving under the influence for over a year. He’d have hated for you to let him off.”
“He might have been more supportive in court,” she said indignantly.
“Lonely at the top, huh?” Ethan worked hard to inject sympathy into the question. She’d accused him of being nice to get his own way—maybe that was exactly what he should be doing. If it came down to the judge against the entire town, she might welcome any ally she could get. Even him.
“Uh-huh.” She was so busy giving the sheriff the evil eye, she didn’t seem to register his question.
“So, Cynthia…” Her eyebrows shot up at his use of her first name. “I said you could call me Ethan,” he reminded her.
She gave him a small nod. “I’ll allow it,” she said, as if they were in court.
“Anyone call you Cindy?”
“No.” Laden with warning.
He smiled. “How old are you?”
“What kind of question is that?” She was practically squinting with suspicion.
“It’s just, you seem young to be a judge.”
“Age has nothing to do with it,” she said haughtily. “Judges are chosen on ability.”
Which meant she was worried he would think she was too young. “I’m thirty-six,” he offered, in a spirit of openness.
“I didn’t ask.”
He grinned, and it coaxed a return smile out of her. Their eyes met, and there was a moment of fragile connection.
“Thirty-two,” she said abruptly.
About what he’d guessed. “How long have you been a judge?” Had to be at least a couple of years, if the certainty she’d displayed in the courtroom and her refusal to debate—
Hold on a moment. The judge had developed a sudden renewed interest in the peach cobbler.
“Is this your first time?” he demanded.
She appeared to be giving her mouthful of cobbler the full thirty-two chews recommended for healthy digestion. At last, she swallowed. “Yes, as a matter of fact, this is my first judicial appointment.”
“I don’t believe it,” he said, outraged. “My son’s up in court, and they send a-a dude judge.” He checked on Sam, found him still with the same kids.
She darted a quick glance around, then leaned into him. “I am a legal professional, fully qualified to be a judge,” she muttered.
“Except for your total lack of experience.”
“I’ve had nearly ten years in the courtroom, Mr. Granger. That’s ten more than you. You may be a hero in this hick town—” her eyelids flickered as she realized what she’d said “—but don’t think for one second you know my job better than I do.” She was close, her breath shallow but urgent. Fleetingly, he wondered how she’d taste—he imagined ginger and peach.
Could his libido please stay the hell out of this? “Don’t think for one second I’ll let you get away with incompetence,” he said roughly.
Was it his imagination, or did she pale?
“Coffee, you two?” Melanie chirped. The tray she carried held half a dozen coffees.
Ethan talked his temper down as he took a mug for himself, one for Cynthia. “How do you like yours, Your Honor?” he said evenly.
“Black with one sugar, thank you, Mr. Granger.” The color was back in her cheeks.
“Come on, guys,” Melanie chided them. “I saw your cozy little tête-à-tête just now. You can’t tell me you haven’t gotten past the formalities.”
“You’re right,” Ethan said, “Cynthia and I were just talking about—”
“Hobbies,” Cynthia interjected. She stood very still, as if she was holding her breath.
Ethan left her hanging as he sweetened and stirred both their coffees. He handed Cynthia hers. “Hobbies,” he agreed, lengthening his drawl for full effect, since hick was the flavor du jour. “Mine are cow-wrangling and poker.”
“Amazing,” she said briskly, “so are mine.”
She came back fighting every time. And, bizarrely, it made him want to laugh. Clearly an overreaction to stress.
“I’m glad you two are getting along.” Melanie’s complacency said she meant more than a judge getting along with a guy who ran a community service program.
No way. No matter what his hormones thought about her mouth and how she’d taste.
On the other hand, Cynthia looked positively wretched as she sipped her coffee. As if she wanted to set Melanie straight, but didn’t want to give Ethan an opening to share his thoughts concerning her professional abilities.
He wasn’t about to accuse her of incompetence without thinking it through. He needed to act in Sam’s best interests. For now, he would settle for making her as uncomfortable as he could.
“Yeah, Judge Cynthia is pretty cute,” he said to Melanie. “Even cuter than the triplet calves my prize cow gave birth to last week.”
Cynthia sputtered on her drink.
“Careful.” He took the mug from her. “Do you make a habit of spilling coffee?”
Her eyes flared, and color rose in her face. So, she was still embarrassed about being found in the closet. Now that he knew she was a brand-new judge, he wondered if she really had been accidentally shut in t
here, or…
“Triplet calves are very rare,” Melanie reassured Cynthia. “They’re quite unique. And as Ethan says, very cute.”
Now Cynthia looked flustered, as if she wasn’t used to receiving compliments, bovine or otherwise. Which he found hard to believe.
“While it’s very kind of you to compare me to your cattle—” she lied barefacedly, he noted with interest “—in view of our professional relationship, perhaps we should avoid such personal remarks.”
Melanie looked disappointed.
“Whatever you say, Your Honor.”
For now.
CHAPTER FIVE
ETHAN PHONED CYNTHIA at work several times over the next few days. Each time, she panicked at the sound of his voice.
Not that she couldn’t handle a man who pretended to be sympathetic, then pounced at the first sign of weakness. That was standard courtroom practice, a technique she’d used more times than she could count. But she’d never had the added complication of such—such excessive awareness of her opponent. Maybe that was why courtrooms had benches and docks and witness boxes—physical barriers between antagonists.
Because when she’d gotten close to Ethan at the potluck, telling him in no uncertain terms she was more than qualified for this job, she’d had only half her mind on what she was saying. The other half, doubtless the same half responsible for emotional meltdowns and broom closet incidents, had reeled under the masculinity he exuded. Had taken note of such irrelevancies as his hard-planed cheekbones, his strong chin, his—No, she hadn’t stared at his mouth. That would’ve been inappropriate.
His first call, the morning after the potluck, was an unexpectedly friendly invitation to inspect the work program on his ranch; Cynthia declined on the grounds she was snowed under at work. She kept her response calm and measured.
The next day, he phoned with suggestions about a couple of defendants on her docket; she duly noted them and thanked him. He made some self-deprecating remark that piqued her suspicions. His objections to her couldn’t have evaporated…but she made her goodbye warmly professional.
